Happiness is
by MLaw
Summary: Drugs and the lure of music could prove dangerous for Illya Kuryakin. Originally posted for PicFic Tuesday on section7mfu on Live Journal.


Illya Kuryakin awoke to find himself sitting on a decrepit sofa in a dingy room. His vision was out of kilter and he could feel his head nodding. He was quite unable to remember how he'd gotten there. Looking down at his bare arms, he saw they were riddled with needle marks. Someone had shot him up with something and from his surroundings, he only hoped it wasn't heroin.

Thrush concoctions he could manage and often tolerate, but hardcore drugs were another story...

There was music playing in the background, John Lennon, he thought. His head was so foggy, and things were spinning just a bit. There seemed to be a colorful aura of sorts kaleidoscoping around the naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling.

There were a few others slumped around the room, none of whom he recognized but all of them looking quite high and immobile. No sign of a guard. He knew he had to get away...to will himself to stand up and just walk out of the room.

Illya hoisted himself forward, pushing up from the couch and standing unsteadily on his feet..._no_, he was still sitting, he hadn't moved at all.

The music drew his attention from what he thought were his efforts to rise. There was an intriguing guitar solo. "_Solo._..where is Napoleon?" Illya mumbled as he listened to the song.

"_I need a fix cause I'm going down_

_Down to the abyss that I've left up town_

_I need a fix cause I'm going down_

_Mother Superior jump the gun_

_Mother Superior jump the gun_

_Mother Superior jump the gun"_

Illya leaned his head against the back of the sofa, fighting the nausea that had suddenly appeared in his stomach.

"_Happiness is a warm gun_

_( bang bang shoot shoot )_

_Happiness is a warm gun, yes it is_

_(bang bang shoot shoot)_

_When I hold you in my arms (oh yes)_

_When I feel my finger on your trigger (oh yes)_

_I know nobody can do me no harm..." *_

"Very true," he thought, _happiness is a warm gun_. Warmth meant it had been fired. He rarely missed when he shot, and he'd feel a sense of satisfaction, knowing he'd dispatched another of U.N.C.L.E.'s enemies.

Illya snickered. He'd never told anyone, but firing a weapon was a most pleasurable feeling, almost sexual. Yes, it was like having really good sex. Shooting his gun was a release, just like...

"Mmmm." He wrapped his arms around himself thinking of that moment, as he would gently squeeze the trigger; the feeling of anticipation waiting for the the bullet to explode from the gun barrel, just like...

Illya smiled, becoming lost in his drug-induced euphoria and completely losing his resolve to get up and escape. He felt lazily along his side for his Special but found it, as well as his shoulder holster, were missing. It was if a part very important, personal part of him was gone.

"_Chyort_." He cursed, closing his eyes, and nodding off.

There was a loud explosion,followed by billowing white smoke that rapidly filling the room. The Russian barely reacted, even when he felt a pair of hands lift him, dragging him out through what was left of the door that had been blown away.

"Illya!" A familiar voice called to him, sounding like it was in an echo chamber. He felt a slap against his cheek, and then another.

"_Tovarisch_, snap out of it," Napoleon insisted. "It's okay buddy, I've got you now. We'll get you to Medical and cleaned up."

Illya slowly raised his head, looking at his partner with bloodshot eyes, but the image he saw was spinning.

"Napoleon?" He slurred, with mild surprise in his voice. "Will you please stay still? I was wondering where you were. Where...where is _here_?"

Napoleon stared into Illya's eyes that were dilated so wide from the drugs, there was hardly any blue showing. "Saving your sorry Russian butt, and I don't think you really want to know where you are."

It had taken U.N.C.L.E. nearly a week to locate the drug den where T.H.R.U.S.H. had been holding their captives, shooting them up to keep them under control, and thereby requiring a minimum of security.

Solo dragged his partner along the dimly lit corridor. "Come on, keep walking...that's it, one foot in front of the other," he coaxed. "At the rate you're moving we might get out of here by Halloween."

"Napoleon?"

"Yes Illya?"

"Do you have my gun?"

"No, yours is probably in the hands of some pusher by now. Why?"

"Pity...I _feel_ like shooting someone. Did you know that _happiness is a warm gun_?" He gushed before passing out.

Solo shook his head, wondering where that remark had come from. "Whatever you say chum," Napoleon grunted as he hoisted the limp Russian over his shoulder.

"I think it's more like, _happiness is a warm partner._ Glad you're alive my friend._._"

.

* the Beatles "Happiness is a Warm Gun." 1968, The White Album.


End file.
